


Good Times for a Change

by MadameRed



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adorable Awkward Virgins, F/M, Fingering, First Time, alistair is so grateful, so is moira, zev is a deviant and a bad influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameRed/pseuds/MadameRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of the Blight and in the face of a country torn by civil war, the last Wardens in Ferelden find a peaceful interlude. A sweaty, steamy, wonderful interlude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Times for a Change

**Author's Note:**

> Good times for a change  
> see, the luck I've had  
> can make a good man  
> turn bad
> 
> So please please please  
> let me, let me, let me  
> let me get what I want  
> this time  
> - _The Smiths_

Moira straightened, nudging at the firewood fodder she’d brought back from her bath with her foot. It was mostly sticks and broken branches, as Alistair and Shale had gathered the larger logs earlier. Sten carefully stoked the fire, using a leafy evergreen branch to fan the flames before feeding that to the fire, too.

“I’ll tend the fire till it’s roaring on its own,” she said. “The rest of the guys are taking their turn in the stream.” Sten looked up at her, his face as impassive as always, though she thought she saw a glimmer of amusement alongside the gleam of the firelight. He inclined his head once and stood, silent despite his huge frame. She left him to gather his things and turned to begin setting up her tent. She tied her damp hair back and set to work, all too aware of the smell of Leliana’s cooking. When they’d left Redcliffe, the grateful arlessa had sent along several packs filled with food and various cooking ingredients. Isolde employed an Orlesian chef so that she could still enjoy a taste of home, which sent Leliana squealing for the kitchens. The bard was stingy with her resources, but the day had been long and frustrating, and she had begun roasting the succulent duck without any prompting.

It was an unusually warm night for this time of the year. Frost was creeping up from the south, though it seemed temporarily beaten back by a heat wave come down across the sea from the Free Marches. The result was a sticky humidity that made even the simplest exertions unpleasant. The thought of fighting darkspawn or bandits was cringeworthy, and the actual act of doing so was downright abominable.

“Perhaps if we simply give away our belongings, these thugs will leave us be. We can avoid bloodshed and we will not have to carry all of this a moment longer,” Morrigan had groused. As she had slipped from the shadows to slit a bandit’s throat, sweat running down her back to pool unpleasantly at the base of her spine, Moira almost felt like the witch had the right of it.

So when Zevran and Ceallach had jogged back up to the group, after scouting ahead, with news of a clear, albeit small, stream and a defensible clearing against an impossibly steep shelf of rock, Moira’s decision had been an easy one.

She set up her tent a fair distance from the fire, nearer the cool, if slightly damp, rocks. She quickly closed the tent flaps in a fruitless attempt to keep the humidity out. Satisfied that her tent and belongings were set up to her liking, she decided to return to the fire, hoping that the flames would at least dry out the air around it.

Leliana was testing the potatoes with a fork just as the men returned from the stream. Zevran had his arm thrown over Alistair’s shoulders, grinning from ear to ear, seemingly finishing up a conversation. Alistair’s whole face was pink, but he didn’t look like he was waiting to be swallowed up by the deep roads, as was his usual state of being when Zevrean focused his attentions on him. Ceallach trotted at Sten’s side until he caught sight of his mistress. He nosed Sten’s hand once and bounded past Alistair and Zevran, jostling them. Moira laughed as Alistair stumbled, his large frame nearly sending Zevran flying into a tree. The mabari pulled himself up just short of tackling his mistress into the ground. She rubbed at his head, bending down to kiss him between the eyes.

“Were you standing guard over the boys while they were indisposed?” she asked.

“He protected us most efficiently while Alistair and I made fierce, passionate love in the mud,” Zevran said seriously. Alistair shoved at his shoulder, blushing, and Caellach wagged his stubby tail. Moira smirked.

“The do need their private time,” she conceded to her dog. Alistair buried his face in his hands. Zevran laughed and clapped the warrior on the back, then sauntered off to peer into the cooking pot. Alistair carded his hands down his face, sighing as if he’d been deprived of fresh air while in Zevran’s presence.

“Zev’s an incorrigible tit, but you don’t have to encourage him. He’s quite capable of scandalizing me without your help,” he grumbled. Moira smirked at him.

“But red looks so good on you,” she teased. Alistair cast a quick, furtive glance around the camp. Satisfied that their friends were all focused on their own things, he cast his gaze back to Moira. It was his turn to smirk. He moved quickly for a warrior of his size, gripping her waist and spinning them around. He marched her backwards until he had her sandwiched between his hard chest and a tree. She felt her cheeks heat up as he leaned in to kiss them.

“You happen to look good in red, too,” he murmured into her ear. Her breath hitched on a soft moan.

“That’s not fair,” she breathed. “You were talking with Zevran.” He nibbled her earlobe.

“He’s just over there if you’d like to speak with him,” he suggested.

“Mm, I would, but there seem to be more pressing issues that require my attention,” she reasoned.

“Such as?”

“Such as the mystery of why you’re not kissing me.” She felt him smile against her jaw.

“As my lady commands,” he said huskily. He still took his sweet time getting to her lips. He kissed acoss her cheek and jaw until his lips finally descended on hers. Moira rested her forearms on his broad shoulders and sighed happily into the kiss.

He really had gotten quite good at this. A scant two months ago, he’d been fumbling against her mouth, too wet or too many teeth. She didn’t have much experience beyond kissing, but she could at least guide him in that. To his credit, he learned quickly, and in no time his kisses had gone from open mouthed with a heedless, flailing tongue to skilled and artful. His lips slanted against hers, warm and dry. He nibbled gently on her lower lip, worrying it between his teeth before sucking on it. As he released her lip, his tongue followed it and slid carefully into her mouth. Brushing past her teeth, he massaged her tongue with his own, and a pleased little noise worked its way from his throat as his grip on her waist tightened. Moira pushed her hips away from the tree, fully intending on grinding into him a little.

That had been the plan, until her stomach growled.

Alistair detached his lips from hers just enough so that he could feel him smile.

“I see I’m not the only problem that needs fixing,” he chuckled. Moira shook her head and cupped his cheek in her hand.

“You’re not a problem and you’re not broken,” she told him. “But I am hungry.” Just like that, the smooth, confident man that had pinned her against a tree was gone and the romantically awkward boy had returned. His smile was small an shy, his eyes downcast, and his face pink once more. He brought her knuckles up to his lips and kissed them like a proper gentleman would.

“The food smells about done anyway,” he said. He led her away from the tree and dipped at the waist in a playful bow. “After you, my lady.” She gave his hand a squeeze as she walked ahead.

“We’ll finish this later,” she said coyly. Had she kept her eyes on him, she might have glimpsed the fleeting anxiety that passed over his features.

The duck was cooked perfectly, and Leliana preened a little when Moira told her so. The potatoes were seasoned lightly and simmered with beans and leeks.

“This is better than what Isolde’s personal chef whipped up,” Alistair mumbled around a mouthful of potatoes.

“You keep those sentiments to yourself,” Morrigan hissed from beside Moira. “She’ll be absolutely intolerable if she years your blabbermouth going on.” Moira pursed her lips, half in poorly concealed amusement and half in chastisement. Alistair glared at the witch and then leaned forward to help himself to a loaf of bread. Morrigan’s efforts of silencing Alistair proved futile, as Wynne thoroughly praised Leliana for her cooking. Morrigan curled her lip in disgust and stalked off to her personal camp.

By the time the food was cleared away and the dishes cleaned up, it was dark. The sun set, removing any chance of the humidity drying up and leaving a clammy, uncomfortable stickiness in the air. Zevran announced that he was going to take first watch. He whistled for Ceallach, and after wiggling against Moira's side, the mabari loped after the assassin. Sten would be taking second, and Moira was endlessly grateful that she would be getting a full night's sleep. The other might tease her for being a spoiled noble, but she missed the finer things in life. Namely her giant bed with her clean, soft blankets that always provided her with a proper sleep.

She stretched, popping her back and elbows and sighing. Turning, she eyed her tent with an eager gaze until Alistair caught her attention. He was standing outside of his tent, his back to her. She could see his hands making quick little gestures, not unlike the grander motions he went through when he spoke to anyone. So was he speaking to himself? Smiling mischievously, she crept up behind him and covered his eyes with her hands. He let out a strangled yelp as he flinched forward, grabbing at her hands. Moira stifled a giggle and pressed a quick kiss to the back of his neck before he turned around. Alistair narrowed his eyes playfully and caught one of her hands in his. He pressed a warm kiss to her palm, his thumb gently massaging the skin between her thumb and forefinger. 

“Have you run out of stimulating conversation to have with the rest of us?” she teased. He smiled fondly at her.

“Nothing so grave, my dear. I’d be hard pressed to exhaust Zevran of anything he might consider stimulating,” he guessed. Moira smiled wryly.

“I thin you’re right.” She paused, then pressed on. “So were you practicing your speech to tell Isolde off when we return to Redcliffe?” she prompted. Alistair sucked in a breath; he glanced up at the night sky as he exhaled, then turned his gaze back to Moira.

“I - I really don’t know how to ask you this,” he began. Moira tilted her head slightly. His face was rapidly turning pink again and his hand clenched and relaxed at his side.

“Ask me what?” she asked, as gently as she could. He huffed out a nervous laugh and carded a hand through his hair. 

“You’d think that after everything we’ve been through, this would be easier,” he muttered. “But every time I’m around you, I feel as if my head’s about to explode, and I can’t think straight.” Moira felt her cheeks heat up and she broke eye contact with him briefly.

“You’re sweet,” she said quietly, but sincerely. Alistair’s chest puffed out slightly, and he smiled at her, emboldened. 

“The truth is, being near you makes me crazy,” he said earnestly. “In the best way. And I can’t imagine being without you. Not ever.” He took her hands, both of them, in his large, calloused ones. “I don’t know how else to say this - I want to spend the night with you, here, in camp.” Her eyes widened and her lips parted - she didn’t know if she was going to gasp or squeal her acquiescence, but he didn’t give her a chance. 

“Maybe this is too fast, I don’t know.” He brought his eyes back up to meet hers. There was so much love and dedication in that heated amber gaze that it very nearly stole her breath away. “But I know what I feel.” He looked about ready to say something else, but she pulled one of her hands from his and pressed a finger to his lips.

“You don’t need to say anything else. My answer is yes,” she said. His eyes searched hers, as if he were waiting for when she would laugh and brush off his confession. A smile crept across her face, and his eyes widened.

“Really?” he asked quietly. In the back of her mind, Moira cursed Eamon and Isolde to the deepest reaches of the void for sowing the field of self doubt and deprecation that Alistair couldn’t seem to pull himself out of sometimes. But all of that anger would be for another time. She felt her smile broadening in response to his tentative inquiry, and was treated to a sight that made her heart swell. Alistair’s eyes crinkled as he smiled wide enough to crack a star in two. He dropped his hands to her waist and pulled her as close as he dared in full view of the camp. She tilted her face up and met his questing lips with her own. His large hands pressed into the small of her back; she took a half step forward and melded their bodies together, deciding that their other companions could just get over it if they were so offended.

Ever the gentleman, Alistair broke the kiss before things got too heated. He rested his forehead briefly against hers, then took her hands in his once more. He tugged on them, lightly, encouragingly, guiding them back into his tent. Moira noted, somewhat impressed, that Alistair had set up his tent further from the others than what he usually did. She felt a nervous flutter in her stomach as they dipped into the tent. She sat back on her knees, tucking her feet beneath her as Alistair secured the tent flap to prevent them from baring their sin to their friends. The single lantern within gave off barely enough light to cast a shadow, which was good, she supposed. Their friends didn’t need a shadow show to go along with the noises. 

Moira’s cheeks grew hot and she bit her lip in nervous excitement. She didn’t even register that Alistair had moved to kneel in front of her until she felt his hand on her shoulder. She met his gaze - his fleeting confidence from earlier was nowhere to be seen, and he wore his inexperience plainly.

“I - I’ve never... I mean, I’m-” he stammered. Moira smiled in a way that she hoped would put him at ease. 

“We’re in this together,” she assured him. “I want this, Alistair. I want you.” Neither of them knew what to do. Moira had heard stories from noble ladies; a woman’s first time would be painful and there would likely be blood everywhere. Men were large and rough, and she could expect bruises and overall soreness in the morning. Years ago, she had expressed her concerns about a painful first time to her mother. The teryna had assured her that with the right partner, she would enjoy it. As Alistair tilted his head to capture her lips, she thought that a better partner couldn’t be found. She knew that Alistair would never hurt her; with a needly little moan, she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave herself over to him. 

He caught her as she pressed against him, settling his hands on her waist. His fingers massaged into her back, which encouraged her to shuffle forward on her knees, pressing their bodies together. In this, Alistair was confident. One of his large, rough hands came up to cradle her face, deepening the kiss in turn. His tongue slowly crept from his mouth to slide into hers. At the first touch of his questing tongue, she parted her lips. Her tongue met his, guiding him into her mouth with teasing little caresses. She suckled on his tongue, which drew a soft moan from him. The hand on her cheek drifted down; he positioned his thumb beneath her chin and encouraged her to tilt her head back

Alistair broke the kiss to trail his lips across her cheek and jaw. He ghosted over her ear lobe, pausing and smirking when she shuddered in his arms. Emboldened, he kissed her ear lobe more firmly, then flicked his tongue against it. That earned him a pleased gasp, accompanied by nails scraping across his tunic. Eager to see where else he could touch that would make her gasp, he kissed down her neck, pausing occasionally to nibble at the soft skin there. 

His attentions had her nearly panting with want, clutching onto him for support as she threatened to collapse entirely. His hand left her neck to fall back to her waist, where his fingers curled, bunching up the fabric of her tunic. He kissed his way back to her lips, then dropped a little kiss on the tip of her nose. She opened her eyes (when had she closed them?) when she felt his hands pause. She nodded at him, their noses brushing, and he swallowed thickly. He nodded once to himself, then slipped his hands beneath her tunic. 

Moira hummed appreciatively as his rough hands spread over the skin of her waist. His touch wasn’t insistent, though, and it tickled. She squirmed a little and bit back laughter, then covered his hands with her own and pressed them gently into her sides. 

“You won’t hurt me?” she murmured. Maybe she was foolish to even think that he was afraid of hurting her. She practically skipped into battle on a daily basis; maybe it was just nerves? A combination of both? Or maybe it was neither, and he simply found her skin unpleasant to touch.  _There are scars on my sides_ , she thought miserable.  _Maybe he feels them and_ -

She wasn’t sure when his hands had blazed a trail up her stomach, but when he tentatively cupped her breasts, her brain efficiently shut down. His hands were hot, and her breasts fit perfectly into his palms. He squeezed them gently and she moaned; when his thumbs brushed across her nipples, she gasped aloud and arched into his touch. 

“Maker’s breath, Moira,” he groaned, voice muffled by her neck. Her hands roamed down his back and tugged on his tunic. He released her breasts and skimmed up her sides, fingers inching toward her armpits. Moira lifted her arms and he moved his hands up, effectively removing her tunic. The light from the lamp was too dim for either of them to get a proper eyeful of one another, but she didn’t care. She knew what he felt like - well, she’d felt his chest through a tunic. There would be time to gawk later, she hoped. Right now, she just wanted to touch him. 

As soon as her tunic fell away, she pulled on his. Alistair grinned against her mouth in a quick, playful kiss, then shucked his tunic. Her fingers played across his chest, making their way to his neck. She pulled his face in to hers and kissed him. His mouth was once again tentative as it moved against hers and it took a moment before his hands found her waist again. When they did, she slowly shuffled closer. The stiff peaks of her breasts brushed against his chest, and the both shivered. Alistair wrapped his arms around her and mouthed at her jawline.

“’s too dark, I can’t see you,” he murmured. Before she could tell him that ‘it was fine, you aren’t missing much, just put it in me’, he had reached down and twisted the wick up on the lamp. Orange light flickered across them, and Moira fought the urge to bring her hands up to cover herself. Her hands fell slack, however, and she forgot about modesty completely when she turned her gaze to Alistair.

The lamp gave off just enough light to illuminate them more clearly to one another. The orange light played across him, accentuating his tan. Her mouth ran dry at the sight of him. He was entirely built of smooth, solid muscles, which were so defined that they cast their own shadows in some places. His lean waist tapered into narrow hips, and she was positive that she was staring at him like he was a piece of meat. Too aroused to care much about propriety (was one supposed to observe niceties when one was about to be buggered?), she brought her bold gaze up to Alistair’s face. His cheeks were flushed and his lips were parted. One hand remained on her waist while the other clenched in a fist at his side. Then that hand was on the side of her face, guiding her mouth to his in a fierce kiss. His tongue sought hers and she made a pleased little noise when she heard him growl into the kiss. 

She felt his body press into hers, and she let him guide her back onto his bedroll. After some shifting, he settled atop her, keeping most of his weight on his elbows. He kissed down her neck again, pausing to suckle gently at her collarbone. She sighed and arched into him, wrapping one leg around his. Slowly, so slowly, she felt his mouth move south, the touch of his lips becoming softer the closer he got to her breasts. He gazed up at her, his face flushing red, just above the soft mounds of her breasts. Moira exhaled a soft ‘yes!’ in response to the question he couldn’t articulate. Alistair swallowed hard, then turned his attentions back to her chest. 

She could feel his gaze on them and she resisted the urge to squirm. They weren’t anything exceptional, she knew, nothing as large as Leliana’s, but she thought they were okay. Nathaniel had seemed to like them - she nearly shook her head. That had been a long time ago, and this was Alistair, who had just sent her thoughts scattering when he reverently kissed the top of one breast.

He gently cupped the opposite with one hand, the rough callouses rasping pleasantly over the soft skin there. He continued to gently kiss the first breast, his tongue tentatively flickering out to taste her skin. She writhed against him, unable to keep her hips from bucking up. She moaned when she felt his erection poking her thigh and straining against his trousers. 

“Andraste’s pyre,” Alistair breathed. He kissed her breast again, more firmly this time, and closer to her nipple. “You shouldn’t bind these so tightly,” he murmured. A smile fell across her lips as she combed her fingers through his hair. 

“And why is that?” she asked.

“Well, firstly, they’re magnificent,” he said, kissing one again and gently squeezing the other. “Seems a shame to keep them so tucked away. Secondly, you could drive the archdemon into a stupor, then I could just bash it over the head. Blight over,” he added, sounding immensely satisfied with his reasoning. She thrust her hips up again and was rewarded with a gentle nip on the flesh of her breast. 

“And what of the people who may be breasted into stupors, hmm?”

“I get to hit them, too,” he said brightly. Before she could breathe a chuckle, he pressed his lips around her nipple. She gasped and writhed, then keened when she felt his tongue coax her nipple to a hard peak. She pressed on the back of his head, urging his mouth against her. He gently worked the stiff tip of her nipple between his teeth, sicking lightly. He pulled back, kissed the nipple once more, then moved to her other breast. The little noises she was making escalated as his tongue circled her areola, slipping occasionally on the slick skin. 

One of his hands slowly began to crawl down her abdomen, and he curled two fingers just inside the waistband of her trousers. She lifted her hips up and ground against his thigh. To her embarrassment, she wondered if there would be a damp spot on his trousers if she pressed against him enough. Groaning, Alistair dropped his head between her breasts. 

“If you keep doing that, I will utterly lose the ability to give your body its due worship,” he said. Moira was half breathless as she looked down at him.

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” she answered cheekily. He twisted his head and kissed the side of her breast.

“I just don’t want to disappoint you,” he admitted quietly. Moira felt a range of emotions at his words, but deep affection won out. She wriggled under him until he sat back on his knees, then pulled her legs out from under him. She knelt before him and slowly untied her trousers. 

“The only way you could disappoint me,” she began, pausing to work her trousers and smallclothes down her shapely hips. She lifted one knee and then the other, pushing her trousers down until she could pull them off. “Is if you left right now,” she finished, straightening her back and holding his gaze. His lips were parted as he stared at her. 

“The archdemon could land in the fire and they’d be on their own out there,” he said seriously. She beamed at him, a wide, rare grin that she hadn’t felt in many more months than she cared to admit. He grinned back at her and reached out, pulling her into him. He kissed her soundly, shivering at the gooseflesh that her touch caused. She tugged at the laces of his trousers, pilling her face back from his to smirk coyly at him. 

“Don’t you think you should ditch these if you’re going to properly ignore the Blight?” she teased. He smiled playfully at her as she plucked the laces on his trousers open. His face flushed scarlet as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and slid them down. As his cock bobbed free of its confines, Moira felt like her world simultaneously began to spin much faster and stop completely. He tugged his trousers off and straightened up to glance at her bashfully. 

Shamelessly, she stared at his cock and whispered a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker. It was large and thick, but not disproportionately so. Alistair himself was a large man, and Moira thought that his large cock, adorned at the base by dark blond curls, was an absolutely perfect fit for the rest of him. The head was purpled with desire, and a thick bead of slick was working its way from the tip.

“Uh... is it, erm, okay?” he stammered anxiously. She blinked and lifted her green eyes to his, and wondered briefly how long she’d been staring like a lecher.

“Comparing it to my extensive and vast knowledge of all things naughty,” she drawled. Alistair rolled his eyes. “Really, though, if you want an unbiased opinion, go ask Zevran. I think it’s perfect.” Her words brought his blush back in full force. He clapped a hand over his eyes and grinned, then carded his hand down his face and made to meet her gaze only to find that she was staring at his cock again, biting her lip.

“Can I..” she asked softly. Alistair’s face came awash in a fresh stain of red before he swallowed hard.

“I think I might lose my mind if you don’t,” he admitted lowly. “Also, we probably won’t get much further without some sort of touching.” Moira smiled shyly, her eyes downcast, then turned her rapidly dwindling concentration onto his cock.

She reached for it tentatively, and when her fingers brushed the veiny shaft, Alistair exhaled loudly through his nose. She settled the tips of her fingers on him more firmly and reveled in the feel of him. His skin was hot and softer than the finest velvets, but the flesh beneath was as stiff as the hilt of one of her daggers. It twitched upwards at her touch, bouncing slightly with its weight. She swiped her thumb over the head, smearing the slick bead of pre-come until the head was glistening. She listened to his groans of pleasure with no small amount of satisfaction. She wrapped one hand around him, placed the other on his quivering thigh, and gave him an experimental downwards stroke to the base.

“Fuck!” he swore, the expletive coming out as a strangled, choked sort of gasp. She nearly pulled back but for the way he thrust into her grip. “Harder,” he grunted. She tightened her hold on him. “Harder, you won’t - too hard - wait, yes, that’s-” The rest of his words were lose in a stream of groans and heavy panting. She stroked him again, noting happily how he began to thrust into her hand. She gave her wrist an experimental twist, which he showed apparent appreciation for by snapping his hips forward sharply and groaning loudly. She was about to settle his weight into her other hand when he caught both of her wrists in his hands and guided them away. He kissed her mouth and guided her to lay back down on the bedroll. 

“I just don’t want to finish this before we get started,” he murmured against her lips. She smiled into the kiss and wrapped her fingers around his hand. Heat curled in her belly and licked down to her core as she pressed his hand down her body. He angled his fingers so that the very tips of them were the first to graze against the coarse red hair of her sex. Moira hummed and canted her hips up, encouraging him to explore further down. He his his face, which was surely bright red, against her jaw. He nuzzled against her as his fingers crept lower. She felt him graze the thoroughly damp curls that shielded her nether lips. He groaned, a deep, rumbling noise, as his hand slid further down, cupping her with a touch so light she wanted to scream. The tip of his middle finger tentatively pressed against her opening, then suddenly dipped inside. Moira keened and rolled her hips up. Alistair picked his head up and gazed at her in wonder. 

“Andraste’s flaming sword, Moira,” he murmured reverently. “You-” He nearly choked. “You’re  _soaked_.” The words were so lewd, coming from Alistair’s mouth. Sweet Alistair, who scurried away from whores in taverns, who had nearly flushed himself into a fever the first time she slipped her tongue against his lips. Moira tipped her head back and moaned.

“For you,” she gasped. “Because of you.” She writhed against him, pressing her breasts into his chest and bucking against his hand. “Please, Alistair.” He kissed her jaw and acquiesced almost immediately, his thick finger slowly pressing in to the second knuckle. She moaned softly and grasped at the back of his head, doing her best to grind against his finger. He pumped it twice, and she clenched her eyes shut, unable to hold back another moan.

“Is this okay? I’m not hurting you, am I?” The concern he had and the tight lust in his voice made her stomach flutter. She hummed, smiling languidly. 

“So much better than my fingers,” she told him. He cursed again, his words indiscernible as he nipped at the skin of her neck.

“You do this to - to yourself?” he asked, his voice husky and deep. She felt his tongue curl around the shell of her ear, felt a jolt of desire spiral down her spine in response. “You touch yourself at night, in your tent?” His ring finger probed at her, spreading her slick, then slipped in beside his other finger. Moira’s mind was reeling at his words and her body was singing in pleasure. His two fingers were much thicker than hers, and her passage was tight. He curled his fingers inside and stroked her walls gently. He pulled them out, dipped them into the folds between her inner and outer lips, then pushed them back in. The slickness of her made an obscene squelching noise, which seemed to spur Alistair on further; he pulled them out and worked them in again.

“Please, Alistair,” she moaned. “I need you.” His fingers faltered inside of her, and he swore again. He withdrew his fingers from her body, and she groaned at the loss. Alistair shifted, resting on his elbows above her and settling his hips against hers. She felt his cock resting heavily against her mons; she smirked up at him and wiggled her hips. He kissed her, deep and slow and passionate enough to make her knees quiver against his slim waist. 

“I love you, you know,” he murmured against her lips. He touched his forehead to hers. “So much.”

Moira touched her hand to his cheek, brushing her calloused thumb across it. “I love you too, you wonderful man.” She watched the pleasure flicker in his eyes at her praise, and she could not help but lean up to kiss him again. 

Alistair returned the kiss eagerly as he shifted down a few inches. Excitement buzzed through Moira as she felt the head of his cock slide down to rest against her slick entrance. He broke the kiss to press his cheek against hers as he slowly pushed into her. He tried to pause, to give her time to adjust, but her knees at his hips squeezed and pulled, forcing him to keep going. 

Moira panted, gasped, and whimpered as he filled her slick, tight channel. It didn’t quite hurt; it was more of a lazy burn, a pressure against the hot walls of her sheath as his swollen member stretched her. She felt his hips settle against hers, and he finally stopped. His body was taut as a bowstring and trembled, and once she forced herself to clear her head, she was aware of his harsh breathing in her ear. She stroked over the back of his head and shoulders with shaking hands. He picked up his head to gaze at her, and the sight of him sent a flood of heat coursing through her. His lips were dry from panting, his pupils nearly overtook his irises, and his cheeks were flushed. Despite her own breathlessness, she kissed him forcefully. He moaned into her mouth, and when his hips gave a small, involuntary thrust forward, she whimpered in what was most definitely pleasure. 

“Maker’s balls, Moira,” he groaned. His hips stuttered on their own accord again, and this time she felt her body reply with an ill-timed thrust of her own. “You’re so tight.” She tilted her hips up and he nearly cried out.

“Move,” she gasped, loosely wrapping her legs around his waist. He fisted one hand in the furs by her head, withdrew his hips, and then pushed in again. She sighed as he slid in; his cock was fully coated in her juices this time - the pressure was greatly diminished, replaced more substantially by a feeling of fullness. By his third thrust, the pleasure was quickly overtaking everything else. His thick cock rubbed against every inch of her slick core, and he slid more easily in and out with every thrust. He buried his head into the side of her neck and thrust in again, harder this time. She tossed her head back and cried out as he snapped his hips against hers.

“Alistair!” she gasped. She clawed at his shoulders and down his back, which only spurred him on further. She felt his arm leave the furs to curl under her neck. Her legs tightened around his waist, and his free hand moved back to clutch at her thigh. Her name fell from his mouth in a gasping mantra. He paused once, then rolled his hips into her, moaning languidly at the way she cried out at the different angle.

She could feel pressure building inside of her. It felt a bit like the fluttering of her stomach when she jumped from a high place, only it pooled just above her groin rather than in her stomach. She’d orgasmed before, but it was already feeling vastly different that when it was just her fingers. She gasped his name and clutched at his shoulders, her legs clenching around the small of his back. The arm behind her neck moved so that his large hand cradled the back of her head. He kissed her deeply, sloppily, noisily. Teeth nipped and tongues writhed much like their bodies did. Their noses were smashed together in their haste, and when their lips parted, they gasped for breath. 

Alistair snapped his hips against hers a little more insistently, responding with grunts to the gasp of ‘yes!’ that fell from her lips. Moira could feel the pressure mounting, was acutely aware of it growing like a snowball rolling downhill. With every roll of Alistair’s hips, with every thrust she struggled to meet, that pressure pushed its way further down. It was steady and firm, the build up of her climax, until Alistair heaved a groan and shoved into her hard, and she fractured.

She gasped and whimpered, her body instinctively curling in on itself, burying her face into the crook of his neck. She could feel the walls of her tight channel fluttering around him, squeezing and releasing as he chased his own release. Before her slick sheath had calmed, his hips stuttered and broke their rhythm. He only just stopped himself from shouting, but he moaned loudly by her ear as he ground his hips into hers, spilling his seed deep within her. He rode out his climax, his hips pulsing weakly against hers a few more times before he slowly pulled out. 

He rolled over to lie on his side next to her, and she turned her head to face him. She returned his tired, sated smile with one of her own, then kissed him. His tongue darted out to tease her lips and she felt a rush of heat in her core. She ignored it, feeling too good to care about much of anything, until she felt something wet begin to slide out of her. 

“Oh!” she muttered and, unthinking, reached between her legs to feel that the proof of Alistair’s love was indeed vacating her premises. Alistair followed her hand with his eyes and drew his own conclusions. His cheeks pinked, but he chuckled and turned away. He flipped back over with a clean cloth in his hand. She tried to take it from him, but he nimbly avoided her grasping hand. He slid the cloth down her flat abdomen, and when she realised his destination, her cheeks flushed.

“Alistair, you don’t-”

“I - I know,” he said. “But I made you a mess. Let me do this for you.”

Moira threw her arm over her face to hide the deep scarlet flush, but she grinned and let her knees fall open. With a small smirk, Alistair let his hand dip between her legs. He wiped at her gently, his face remaining clinically calm as his fingers teased her folds through the cloth. She gasped and made a weak-willed attempt at stilling her bucking hips. His finger brushed over her clit and she whimpered, then cast him a squinted, side-eyed mock glare.

“You know what I think, Alistair Theirin?” He met her accusing gaze with wide, innocent eyes.

“What do you think, Moira Cousland?” Before she could open her mouth to answer, he slipped a finger from within the cloth and plunged it into her still soaked core. She moaned softly, her eyes closing briefly. When she opened them again, she smirked playfully at him.

“I think you listened to the other Wardens in Denerim far more than you admitted previously,” she said.

Alistair smirked impishly at her and sat up, tossing the cloth to the side. He grasped her hand and urged her to sit up as well, then pulled her into his lap. She wiggled a bit to settle, her turn to smirk as she felt his cock press against her belly. Apparently he’d been ready to go again as quickly as she was. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her, the passion of it leaving her light-headed. He grinned at her, wide and bright and full of love and lust, and she couldn’t help but return it.

“You’re right.”

**Author's Note:**

> dat warden stamino tho. 
> 
> This has not been beta'd, so please point out any spelling or grammatical errors.


End file.
